


Scrub. Bleed. Rinse. Repeat

by blackXroseXdying



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Blood, Drinking, M/M, Self-Harm, Sick and sad Mickey, Vomiting, mentions of past rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-12-31 21:18:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12141342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackXroseXdying/pseuds/blackXroseXdying
Summary: Aftermath of 3x06.Mickey deals. Mandy cares. And Ian and Mickey actually talk.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been rewatching the show and this popped into my head.  
> Characters may be a little OOC.  
> Warning for small flashbacks to that scene at the end of the episode.

Chapter One  
Mickey’s POV:

 

     _What kind of sick bastard would…? It wasn’t that bad, was it? What we’d been doing? It definitely hadn’t_ felt _bad.  
     _ Hundreds of thoughts race through my mind as I sit in my concrete hideout, drinking straight from the bottle of….well, I’m not really sure what it is exactly, but it burns my throat as I swallow and with each sip my mind becomes fuzzy and my tattooed fingers tingle. _  
_ The sun had disappeared hours ago and I throw the now empty bottle out of the glassless window behind me, listening as it shatters on the ground below. I pull myself to my feet, swaying for a minute, before staggering home, my vision swimming in and out of focus.  
     The house (for once) is dark and silent as I stumble through the front door, catching myself on the wall with a loud _thump_ before I can fall. The door slams closed behind me and a lump on the couch in the living room swears and stands up.  
     “Fuck, Mickey.” It’s Mandy. As she gets closer, I can see her face is paler than usual and there are dark circles under her eyes, like she hasn’t been sleeping. She grips my arm above the elbow, steadying my swaying. “Where the fuck have you been? I’ve been looking for you for days, asshole.”  
     I barely hear the words she speaks. Even through the thick sweater I wear, I can feel her hand on my cold arm, and bile rises in the back of my throat. I swallow it down and shake her off.  
     “’m fine. Fuck.” I leave her standing there, slam the bedroom door and flop face down onto the lumpy mattress, passing out almost instantly.

 

****

     _Skin. Pale skin._  
     Cold, yet somehow burning hot. Like a branding iron held against my skin.  
     Bare legs against mine, my body jostling as the one moves on top of me.  
     I look to my left and see him. Shaved red hair, closed fist pressed to his mouth, blood dropping down his still bare chest. Tears in those eyes I love, but always stop myself from looking at, getting lost in.

     I jolt upright, gasping for air, the room spinning around me.  
     My stomach rolls with an all too familiar nausea hitting me like a truck, and I bolt for the bathroom, only just making it in time before I heave and empty the contents of my stomach into the bowl.  
      The smell of vomit and tequila hit my nose, rolling my stomach and making me gag again. Blood rushes through my ears, and over the loud hammering of my heartbeat I hear Mandy crash into the bathroom behind me, swearing in true Milkovich style.  
     Her hand resting on my back shakes and burns, and I try to shake it off as I heave again, nothing left but stomach acid.  
     “Fucking hell Mickey,” Mandy says when the heaving has finally stopped again, and I sit next to her with my back against the tub. “How much did you drink?”  
     I think back to the nightmare I’ve had every night since _that day._ Always the same one.  
     “Not enough.” I cough out, my voice hoarse and throat dry.  
     Mandy shoves a cool glass of water into my shaking hands, I drink slowly, not wanting to spend another ten minutes with my head in the toilet.  
     “What happened, Mickey?” My sister asks, staring straight ahead and knocking her shoulder against mine. “Your face is all busted up, you’ve been gone for days, and now you can’t hold your liquor? It was more than a usual fight with dad, wasn’t it?”  
     Surprise shoots through me. She’s usually too oblivious, too wrapped up in herself and own crap to notice anyone else. I try to stand, to get away from all the questions, but she pulls me back down next to her.  
     “You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what happened.” She can be a stubborn bitch when she wants to be.  
     I stare at her, replaying that day in my head – how happy I’d felt the night before with Ian’s body pressed against mine, shooting each other looks when we thought the other wasn’t looking, then the next morning, his chest warm against my back for those blissful minutes before we were interrupted. Tears burn I my eyes and I press the heels of my hands against my closed eyelids.  
     “Just go, Mandy,” I say. “I just want to shower and go back to sleep.”  
     Mandy sighs and stands up. “Fine, but we are talking about this tomorrow. Oh, and there’s no hot water. Again.”  
     I close and lock the door behind her before turning on the shower, stripping out of my dirty clothes and climbing under the frigid water.  
     The burns on my arms – put there only yesterday by my own lighter – sting like a fucker when the water hits. I close my eyes as I start furiously scrubbing at my skin, hoping that if I scrub hard enough I won’t be able to feel _her_ skin against mine any longer. Hoping that I can scrub away every bad thing that happened that day.  
     Somehow the water seems to get colder, but I stay under the stream until I start shivering and my teeth chatter. I throw the scrubbing brush into a corner, shut off the water and wrap a towel around my waist. I’m only a few steps out the door when I hear Mandy’s voice.  
     “What the fuck did you do?” Her hands clamp down on my arm, and when I look down and see my arm – from elbow to wrist – is bleeding. I must have scrubbed harder than I thought.  
     “Nothing. It was an accident,” I say, trying to pull away from her.  
     “Don’t lie to me. Just tell me what happened.”  
     “Mandy, I don’t…”  
     “I know you don’t want to fucking talk about it, but tough. Does it have anything to do with this under your pillow?”  
     Hanging in front of my face from between two of her fingers, is a dark grey t-shirt. Ian’s shirt.  
     “What are you doing going through my shit?”  
     One look into Mandy’s tear filled blue eyes, and I find myself telling her everything. From when Ian and I started this thing, to Terry catching us, and everything in between.  
      By the end of it all, Mandy is looking slightly horrified and a little sick.  
     “I guess that explains a lot. And now I know why he gets so twitchy when I mention you,” her words are spoken slowly. “Just go and talk to him. He’s been miserable for days.”  
     “I can’t. He…”  
     “Talk to him, you dumbass! If I have to drag you to him tomorrow, I will.”  
     I storm away from her and slam the door closed, shoving the dresser in front of it so she can’t get in.

     Jeans. Hooded vest. Bottle of whiskey. Gun.  
     Then I’m gone, out the window and back to the abandoned building.  
     I lose track of time between drinking and shooting at the mostly destroyed teddy bear I’m using as target practice.  
     From the corner of my eye I see _him_ walk in and lean against the wall near the broken out window. There’s cut under his eye, and even though he half smiles and cracks a joke, I can feel the sadness in his eyes as he stares at me.  
     I ignore him.  
     Fire off a few more shots.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two  
Ian’s POV:

 

     I stare at the off white ceiling above me, throwing and catching a ball without really seeing anything. All I can see is _her_ moving on top of Mickey, the gun. And Mickey’s face. His face is broken and bleeding and there is sadness and fear in his blue eyes.   
     The bedroom door slams open, thankfully disrupting my thoughts, and I look up to see Mandy standing in the doorway. The grey t-shirt I’d left in Mickey’s room is thrown at my head. I freeze.  
     “Go and talk to him, idiot.” She says, crossing her arms over her chest.  
     “I don’t know what…”  
     “He told me everything, Ian. And what happened? What _Terry_ forced both of you to do? It is killing him. And from the looks of it, it’s killing you too.”  
     She’s right. About me anyway. I haven’t seen or heard from Mickey since it happened. Every time I look in the mirror I see the cut under my eye and the other bruises – nowhere near as bad as Mickey’s would be. My face is somehow paler than usual, something I never thought possible, and I haven’t been sleeping properly so there are circles under my eyes.  
     “Where is he?” I mumble, pulling shoes on.  
     “I don’t know. He’s your boyfriend, you go and find him.”  
     Without waiting for a response, she’s back out the door and thundering down the stairs to the back door.  
     I only have to think for a minute before I know where to look.

     Our usual rooftop is empty.  
     I hear gunshots and turn in a half circle before I see him. He’s over in the next building.  
     I make my way over to him and find him shooting at a teddy bear that looks like it has seen better days. The bruises on his face aren’t so dark anymore, have faded to purple and yellow. He looks terrible – pale and sick and tired, like he hasn’t been eating or sleeping since I last saw him. I stand near the broken out window, trying to keep my eyes from flickering towards him.  
     “So, ah- thanks to me you’ve been pistol whipped and shot in the ass.” I don’t know why I say it. He lets off another shot and I turn to stare at him. Somehow he looks worse than just a few moments ago – paler, shaking just enough for me to notice.  
     He doesn’t take his eyes off the target and I lean against the graffiti covered brick wall. My heart breaks looking at him, remembering that day, feeling as I would vomit when he forced to…  
     “I just want to make sure you’re okay. I haven’t seen you since…” He lets off another shot. I take a deep breath. “Yeah. I can’t stop thinking about it. What happened.” He still hasn’t looked away from the bear. But it’s like he’s trying too hard to keep his eyes where they are.  
     I can’t help but feel frustrated. I just wish he’d look at me, even for a second.  
     “Could you at least look at me?” I shout. I’m not expecting a reply.  
     “No!” He shouts back, letting off three shots.   
     I’m surprised. “What? Mick, why?” I stammer out.  
     “Because of your fucking face.” He tightens his grip on the gun, but doesn’t fire again.  
     “My face?” _What the hell is he talking about?  
_      He starts rambling, the gun still tight in his hands. “Yes! That fucking…every time I close my eyes, I see your face, and those fucking eyes staring at me, and that gun pointed at you, and it makes me wanna…” His breathing is coming out in harsh, uneven pants.  
     I move forward quickly and put my hand on his cold shaking arm and he flinches. For the first time I notice the scars, the burns, the skin on his arms red raw, like he’s been scrubbing or scratching.  
     There are unshed tears in his eyes when he stares at me, his expression as open as I’ve ever seen it – broken. Without taking my eyes from his, I move my hand to the gun and take it from him, putting the safety back on and setting it on the ground.  
     I take hold of his arms gently, stroking my thumbs along his pale kin, avoiding the wounds.  
     “Mickey? What happened?” I ask softly.  
     “I can’t…” I move my hands to rest on his cheeks and it seems to calm him. He swallows and starts again, eyes closed. “I can still feel it. _Him_ smashing my face. _Her…_ on top of me. The…” He swallows convulsively. “It makes me…”  
     “Sick?” Our voices are no louder than a whisper. He nods, and I copy his movements. “Me too. Me too.”  
     “Mandy…she knows. She touched my arm and I…I couldn’t…I was…”  
     “Do you want me to move back?”  
     He shakes his head and fists his hands tightly into my plaid shirt. “No. No, please. Don’t let go.”  
     I pull him into a hug, his face buried in my neck. One of my hands rubs soothing circles across his back, and the other cups the back of his head, fingers threaded through the soft dark hair I love. His tears wet my neck.  
     I don’t tell him that everything is okay, because it’s not. I don’t reassure him that it will get better, because I don’t know when or if it ever will.  
     I hold him as tight as we need, and tell him that I’m here, that I’m not going anywhere.  
     I tell him I love him.


End file.
